Faith the Size of a Mustard Seed

(A novella excerpt)

2014 - Nassau, Bahamas

“You should tell your story, Grammy,” Aaliyah says. 

“You’re my story,” I say with a smile. 

“You need to tell others your story,” she says. She asks me this every time she visits, and I give her the same reply. 

I know that I wouldn’t hear the end of it. Aaliyah wasn’t my first grandchild or my last. She was my youngest son Edward’s first child and only daughter. I was right there, watching proudly when she was dedicated to the Lord. She was no longer the bubbly baby that I remembered but a twenty year-old young woman. Aaliyah had inherited every bit of my stubbornness, defying the odds to go to school to be a writer. Of all things, a writer. It was something I could’ve never imagined for my grandchild. And now here she was telling me that I could write too. 

“I’ve told you my story.” 

“Yeah, Grammy. But you should write it down. Share it with others. So, when you’re gone, your story can still be told and remembered.”

“I don’t know, baby. You’re the writer, not me.” 

“Okay, Grammy. What if I interview you? I’ll do the writing for the story.” 

I knew that once this child got an idea in her mind, she would never get rid of it. Telling my story to my grandchildren was one thing. Sharing it with the world was a completely different thing. It felt like an impossible task. Since I knew my granddaughter wouldn’t stop, I agreed. I also would try to write some of my memories down. That way, she explained I would stay on track during the interview. If only I didn’t love her so much. Personally, I felt little need to chronicle my life. There were many accomplishments, but it meant nothing if my children weren’t better because of it. My grandchildren were reward enough for me. Everything had been worth it in the end. I had no regrets about my life. At the age of seventy-five, I believed I was quite ready to see my Savior. The last few years had been so full. I could think of nothing to make it better. 

As soon as I got home, I pulled out a paper and pen. No laptop or tablet for me. It had taken me too much effort to learn how to read and write as an adult. I wasn’t going to force myself to learn the technology of the day. I took a deep breath, the blank page looming in front of me. It was empty, an invitation to fill it with my life. Where to begin? My mind wandered over the memories of my time. It would be too much to write every single thing that had happened. I had to stick to the main points of my story. 

I began writing the first word and then the next. My history had never been far away, leaving me with bright memories of the past. You might think that someone who learned writing later in life wouldn’t be any good at it. You’d be exactly right in my case. Even through college, I found it hard to organize my thoughts into paragraphs and follow the formatting rules. Stories, though, were more natural to me. I could rattle off story after story from my life without a care about writing rules. Still, this would be harder than I expected. With the interview, I had to be intentional. I rack my brain for the correct order of events and accurate dates. I focus on the task before me, seeing how much I could write. I pause from time to time, searching for the precise memory to include. The task is slow and painful, but I make my way through the story of my life. In the end, I have a clear list of all the events I wanted to share with Aaliyah. This was my legacy. This proof of my existence would outlive me. 

The next time we meet, Aaliyah is ready with a recorder and a notepad. Apparently, this little idea of hers had grown into a college project. When I had agreed to participate, she had told her professor. He was thrilled and decided to count it toward her grade. The anthropology project would be an entire novel based on my experiences. Aaliyah reassures me again that she would handle all the writing and editing. All I needed to do was tell my story. She sits next to me and places her recorder on the table in front of us. Aaliyah glances at her notes before explaining how the process would work. She will ask questions, and the microphone would pick up my answers. I had the freedom to talk about whatever memory the question brought up. Still, I was nervous. Having my voice recorded was more than I had agreed to. But I couldn’t back out now. 

“Remember, Grammy. Speak clearly and loudly for the mic.” Aaliyah says. “Yes, baby. I will,” I say. 

“Ready?” she asks. 

I nod as she clicks the record button. 

“What is your name?” 

“Nadége. Nadége Baptiste.” 

“And your age.” 

“I am seventy-five years old.” 

“Where were you born?” Aaliyah asks. 

“I was born in a little village in Northern Ayiti. Jean Rabel,” I say. 

1941 – Jean Rabel, Northern Haiti 

My fight. This was my fight. 

My earliest memory is of the mountains of Ayiti. Living in the rural country, the mountains were never far from our village. The hillsides were covered in rich soil and trees. I loved to climb them, weaving my way through the dirt paths. Every time, I would find new ways to the top. It was my adventure. Exploring the hills every day since I could walk left my feet calloused and rough. It’s not like I wore shoes anyway. Didn’t have any. No, shoes were for city folk who didn’t want their feet dirty. Shoes had no place out in the country. My knees were always scraped and bleeding from falling on the rocks. You learn to ignore the sting and keep climbing anyway. Even after it was dark, I would roam the mountains. I couldn’t see a thing, but I knew it well enough to never get lost. I felt my way through the night, all the way home. 

I never knew my mother or father. I was born an orphan, yet I never felt alone. With my aunt, uncle, and rowdy cousins, loneliness was foreign. Our small home was always bustling with life. There was always the sound of something, whether laughter or yells. Never a quiet moment. We may have been poor, but we were happy. With them, I never missed my absent parents. I was told that they died when I was very young. Now, there was never any proof whether the story was true or not. I could have very well been abandoned by a teen mother who couldn’t take care of her baby girl. Girls got pregnant easily here. And more often than not, the father didn’t stick around. Haitians had a lot of children, so my “Manman” could’ve possibly carried many babies that she didn’t raise. What happened to my parents never bothered me. When I asked my aunt, she just gave me a sad look that said, “Don’t ask.” Anytime someone asked me about my parents, I’d make up a story of how they died. Sometimes, they died in a car accident in the city. Other times, a bad hurricane swept them out to sea. Whatever really happened to my parents, my mother’s older sister Judeline and her husband Samuel took me in. I never called them by their names though. To me, they were simply Tantine and Tonton, my aunt and uncle. 

With her own five children, Tantine couldn’t keep track of us all. So I was free to spend my evenings exploring the mountains. I can’t complain about my childhood. Even though I went to bed hungry most nights. Even though you could see my ribcage through my skin. Even though the only water we had access to was dirty. Even though she couldn’t afford to send us to school. No, my early childhood was filled with fun. I was always playing with the other children around the village. We made up our own games: chasing each other, kicking a ball, clapping games. You name it, we played it. One of my favorites was when we’d gather rocks and lay them across the ground. Keeping one rock, I’d toss it into the air. The goal was to grab as much rocks as you could before catching the rock you’d thrown. Whoever had the most rocks won. 

No poor kid knows just how poor they are growing up. I thought everyone lived like us. The hills were our only playground. Food was hard to find. And my guardians spent most of their days working to provide. While Tonton spent his day working on a nearby farm, Tantine cared for the kids and our own small garden. I was younger than all my cousins, so I spent most of my time trailing behind them. It was hard to keep up with my limp, so I easily got left behind. The eldest, her name was Lovelie. She’d always wait for me to catch up. Lovelie had beautiful dark gums and a pearly smile. There were so many chores to be done, especially for the girls. Lovelie would lead her younger sisters, Madeline and Valérien through their daily tasks. There were clothes to be washed in the river, produce to be watered, and food to be cooked. 

Everyone was expected to do something to help the household. Even me. Little six-year-old me, all bones and skin with a head that couldn’t fit my body was sent into the market with Madeline to sell produce. She was twelve. She said a few things about selling the mangos and keeping the money hidden in my underwear, so nobody would steal it. Then she abandoned me, sneaking off with her friends to flirt with some boys in the market. So I stood there, a tiny little girl with a green bucket of yellowy-orange mangos. Being by myself was absolutely terrifying. I had never seen so many people together in all my life. Everyone was in constant movement. Along the street were vendors, each yelling what they had and their prices. It was impossible to hear anything over the noise of the crowd. I tried to yell my prices too, but my voice was swallowed under the racket. The air felt thin like there wasn’t enough oxygen. I felt utterly alone. Tears had begun to start in my eyes as I searched for a noticeable face in the crowd. I began to sweat with the heat piling down on me. There was an uncomfortable heaviness in the air as the crowd pulsed around me. I tried again. 

Putting on my bravest voice, I shouted, “Mango for sale. Fifty centimes for one. Mango for sale.” 

These were mangos that were taken down right before they dropped from the tree. They were nice and ripe, juicy too. Even looking at them, I could taste the sweet mango juice on my tongue. We had more produce at home, but Tantine had wanted to start me off with these first. With my small stature, I barely caught anyone’s attention. The other merchants had their own stands, not just a plastic bucket. By this time, I had some concept of money. It passed between hands quickly as people got what they wanted from the vendors. A beggar man eyed me in the crowd and pulled me out. At least someone had heard my shout. He smelled awful like he hadn’t bathed in days. His clothes were raggedy and old. They hung on his thin body loosely. Before I could say thank you, he hurriedly took my bucket of fresh produce right off my head and ran away. A toothless smile played on his lips as he looked back at me, the ripe mangos in his grimy hands. I couldn’t move for several minutes, shocked at what had just happened. There were ten mangos in that bucket, and they were all gone. I left the market in tears, hoping that my Tantine would be understanding. With no produce and no money, I walked home alone. 

“Where’s Madeline?” Tantine asked as I entered the cooking area. This was really a shaded outdoor tent that served as our kitchen. Surrounding her was a bowl of fresh water, an old kerosene lamp, and some tin dishes, cups, and utensils. Tantine squatted above a pot of rice and beans that were cooking above a small fire. The main house was only a few feet away. It was a small two-room hut that Tonton had built with the help of the other men of the village. The wall was formed with mud, with rusted scrap metal for the roof. Straw mats lined the floor where we slept. It was all I knew.

I tugged my faded red top. “She left me,” I said. 

“I’ll deal with that girl later. Where is the money?” 

Tantine was a dark skin woman, aged from the hard life she had lived. It was all about survival for her. Yes, she let her young niece into her home, but there was no way she was going to do it for nothing. Not when there were five other kids in her house to feed. Tantine had managed to have all her children for the same man. All the money the couple earned went into caring for their three daughters and two sons. This included the small farm in the back, where she could make additional money to my Tonton’s wages. His job was to take care of the animals and help in the fields. The farm where he worked provided most of the produce and meat for the city of Cap-Haïtien. Part of his pay included some eggs, milk, and every now and again, a nice slab of meat. But it wasn’t enough to take care of five children and me. 

“I don’t have it,” I said, tears in my eyes. My hands were still shaking from the incident. How could someone be so mean? 

“Where’s the mangos?” 

“They were stolen,” I rubbed my running nose. “A beggar took them.

My Tantine moved toward me. Her face was scrunched up in anger. I’d never seen so much rage in her directed toward me. She’d been mad before at my cousins but never at me. I was the baby. The closest to anger that she had ever gotten was that time I got really hurt from climbing on the mountains. I missed a step and fell a few feet down. My leg was broken. It made me feel sick. I almost threw up. All I felt was pain, unbearable pain with even the slightest movement. I was out there alone for hours, hoping that my family would come and find me. Only when it was dark did my cousins realize something was wrong and started their search. I was found half asleep, my leg swollen and tender. There was no hospital out in the country, so I had to be taken to the city. It was the hardest hours of my young life, riding on the back of a beat-up motorcycle through rural Ayiti. The whole time, I was crying. Lovelie held me in her arms, trying to keep me calm, singing sweet lullabies into my ear. The pain wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. 

The hospital had a funny smell. It made me sneeze as soon as I was carried in. It was hard to describe, unlike anything I’d ever encountered before. Quickly, my attention was captured by the bright lights. The hospital was bathed in it despite it being the middle of the night. What a miracle! There were no lanterns or candles, just radiant light. No smoke or oil. The lights were simply hanging onto the ceiling. I stared at them until a dark shape appeared in my vision. It didn’t seem to matter how long the lights were on, they never faded out. It didn’t make sense. The hospital was filled with people, all getting from one place to the other. Many were workers dressed in matching outfits. The hospital was heavy with the sounds of crying babies, distressed whimpers, and hushed conversation. White was everywhere. White floors, white walls, white sheets. The best part was the nice bed I got to lay on. It was a cloud. I spent most of that time drifting in and out of sleep, being constantly interrupted by the doctor and nurses. 

When my Tantine came to visit me at the hospital, she was enraged that I had hurt myself so badly. I needed a cast. Rather than pay the bill, Tantine sneaked me out of the hospital after my first night. When the time came to take my cast off, my Tonton did it himself with an old machete. I didn’t realize at the time that my Tantine was less worried about me and more about the medical bill she couldn’t pay. My leg healed awkwardly. It gave me a bad leg that made it difficult to run and skip after my cousins. I was always the last to be picked when it came to kickball teams. Then again, being a girl didn’t help. I hobbled after my cousins, eventually learning how to compensate by leaning more on my stronger foot. Even with my bad leg, I couldn’t stop climbing the mountains. My Tantine warned me, but I didn’t listen. Falling hadn’t caused me to fear the mountains. Instead, it fueled my passion to explore even more. My injury had made climbing harder. Yet, I enjoyed the challenge of pushing myself past my limits. For my little corner of the world, the mountains were everything. 

Tantine’s voice began to rise as she realized that I had come home with no money and no mangos. She slapped my cheek. My flesh burned, numb. Though I was no stranger to intense pain, my eyes began to water with tears. I did my best not to move or even make a sound. I couldn’t make a big deal out of her punishment. My Tantine had never been physical with me, but I had witnessed her beating my cousins. Their screams would just anger her more. She wouldn’t stop until they were completely silent, too tired and scared to make their pain known. 

“When I tell you something … you do it,” my Tantine said. “When I give you mangos to sell, I want my money. And you better not be lying to me.”

I nodded. My voice would betray the fear that I was feeling. Any word to defend myself would be viewed as talking back. It would be followed by a swift hit in the mouth. I knew my Tantine to be more harsh than she was loving. I knew somewhere that she must love me, but I didn’t feel any of that in the moment. All I felt was fear that kept me silent. 

“This better not happen again,” my Tantine said. 

She told me to go outside and get her a switch. I looked amongst the tamarind tree for a branch I believed would inflict the least pain while satisfying her. It wasn’t easy but I found a medium branch that would suffice. With her hands, Tantine pulled the leaves off. It left rough knicks and stumps. I prayed silently that she wouldn’t beat me too hard and I wouldn’t cry. All she said was to take off my shirt and turn around. I did so, closing my eyes and holding back tears. She licked me three good times. This was my first offense, so she’d take it easy on me. After it was finished, I ran to find Lovelie and explain everything. She listened sympathetically, drying my tears and kissing my forehead. When my crying had reduced to pitiful sniffles, Lovelie grabbed a small knife. She chopped off a leaf from an aloe plant, the goo oozed out. Holding my back, she smeared the aloe gel directly onto my bruises. It soothed my back, bringing a tingling, cool sensation. I would be alright, she said. At the time, Lovelie was fifteen years old but carried the full weight of being the eldest child. I had always seen her as more of a mother figure than Tantine. Where my aunt didn’t care how I felt, Lovelie sought to comfort me. 

“Don’t worry, Nadége. She just got a little mad. Please be more careful next time,” she said as she hugged me. “It was Madeline, she should have never left you.” 

“It wasn’t my fault. Do you think Tantine will always hate me?” 

“No, she won’t. It’s just this hard life, it makes people hard. Even one centime makes a difference,” she explained. 

My little mind began to turn. I didn’t quite understand why Tantine had been so mad with me. The responsibility of caring for us had barely crossed my young mind. Lovelie explained to me that our life was one where there was never enough. Other kids had it good. When we were so hungry that we couldn’t sleep, my cousins and I played a little game. We would imagine what it would be like to not be poor. Everyone would have their own plate of food that was never empty. When you eat up all your food, they just fill it again like magic. You would eat until your belly was nice and round. When it makes you tired, you lie down on a big bed that’s all yours, in a room that’s all yours. We thought of anything we could, our thoughts putting us to sleep. For other people, the money from mangos didn’t matter. But for us and especially my Tantine, those mangos represented a lot. Even a little money couldn’t be lost. Up until this point, money or the lack thereof wasn’t my concern. I knew we were poor, but I didn’t understand how poor. 

“But what I could do?” I asked. 

“Whatever you can. Next time that man comes to you, I want you to hold onto your mangos and don’t let go. You need to fight,” she said, holding my head in her warm hands. “Do what you can to right this wrong.” 

The advice echoed in my brain. Whatever you can. I had to make this right. Somehow, I’d find the money to pay back Tantine. I couldn’t go out to the road and beg; my pride wouldn’t let me. So, I turned to prayer. Whenever she could, my Tantine would take us down the road to the tiny church. I’d heard many stories but had never called on God myself. With faith the size of a mustard seed, I asked God to provide what I needed. And He did. He did. The idea struck me to return to the sight of the crime the next day. I didn’t know what I was looking for. The market was just as busy as before. An uneasiness slipped into my spirit. Maybe, I should go. But there was a kind face in the crowd. She beckoned to me, and I approached her. 

“I saw what happened to you yesterday,” the woman whispered. “The market can be rough. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“My cousin was supposed to be with me,” I said. 

“It’s alright. Here,” the woman thrusted five-gourde coins into my hand.

It was more than enough to pay back my Tantine. This was it, my miracle. There was God. Now, I didn’t know much scripture or the right words to say when I prayed. But I knew in that moment, He was real. And He heard my prayer. He listened to me. And from that day on, I believed in Him.

“Mèsi, ma’am,” I said. 

“You’re welcome. What is your name, little girl?” 

“Nadége Baptiste.” 

“My name is Yvonne. Let me show you how it’s done, Nadége.”

Yvonne grabbed the attention of passersby by raising her voice above the murmurs of the crowd. Her voice was loud and strong, impossible to ignore. When anyone paused, she drew them to her table. She demanded attention and she got it. Once you got to her stand, Yvonne became a shrewd seller. She let the people bargain, trying to get as much as they could for as little as possible. Her way with them was smart, making them believe they were getting deals by buying more. It was amazing how well she worked the crowd. 

Yvonne went back to her stand, counting the money she had made. Then, she placed it under her bra. Her stand wasn’t as big or attractive as the others. It was a wooden table with pieces of old fabric hanging overhead. But it was more than what I had. Yvonne gave me some words of advice about the ways of the trade. 

“Do not give up, little one,” Yvonne said as we parted. 

 She gave me a sympathetic smile as I walked away. 

I had to go back to the market. It had been a few weeks and there were more mangos to sell. Before I left, I grabbed a pocketknife and sharpened it with a rock. Never going to let that happen again. Each day was a new fight. This time, I was going to be ready for it. Despite Madeline being beaten too, she abandoned me in seconds when we arrived at the market. It didn’t matter. This was all on me. The crowd was just as thick as before. I pushed my way through. My bag was jostled around in my hands, but I didn’t let go. I went to the spot where I had first encountered the strange man. Yvonne was watching. I stood and waited. Sure enough, the beggar man came. There was a familiar glint in his eyes. His smile crooked, he reached out for my bag once again. This time, I snatched my bag back. I took my knife from my pants pocket and unfolded it. He blinked slowly in surprise as I moved it toward him. Refusing to be deterred, he tried once more. I quickly jabbed the knife at him, making a medium gash in his arm. At first, he didn’t register what I had done. When the pain hit him, he stared at his arm in shock. The beggar man cursed at me, running away to stop the bleeding. I felt victorious. He wouldn’t mess with me again. Yvonne gave me a quick nod before returning to her sales. 

Fear had paralyzed me the first time I had come across him. Never did I know that people could be so cruel. Out in the bush, life is predictably cruel. The harsh weather, the biting hunger, the incredible boredom. But it was familiar. The market had new cruelties that waited around for you to come find them. But now, a new courage was growing in my stomach. All my fear began to ease away. This was my little way of helping my family. I found a discarded milk crate and placed it on the ground to step up. My eyes still couldn’t see over the crowd, but it gave me additional height that I could use to my advantage. I shouted as loud as I could, repeating my slogan. My voice could be barely heard over the bustle of the crowd, but I tried again. I held up the plastic bucket with both hands, feeling my arms shake under the weight. Filling my lungs with as much oxygen as I could, I yelled my prices again and again. No one seemed to hear my cries, but I refused to give up. 

At first, it felt like I was just wasting air. No one even took a second glance at me. This only strengthened my resolve. I would not be ignored. Eventually, someone heard my shrill voice. It was a little boy. He pointed at my bucket and pulled at his mother’s clothes. She looked at me. I looked at her. She bought a mango. The boy immediately peeled off the skin and bit into it. The juice dripped down his chin and stained his clothes. He smiled. My first buyer was satisfied. This encouraged me to continue. My pleas never stopped, even when my voice cracked due to lack of water and my voice ached from yelling. I grew tired of standing on my small pedestal and holding my mangos. The heat of the day caused beads of sweat to develop on my brow. But I refused to stop until every single one of my mangos had been sold. I knew I wouldn’t be welcomed home if they hadn’t. 

There was a smug smile on my face as I approached my Tantine. My arms were sore, and I was losing my voice. Yet, I smiled with the pride of an honest day’s work. Before she could even ask, I pushed the money into her hands. It wasn’t a lot, but it was money that I had earned. All by myself. I looked at her, expecting some type of affirmation. Just like she did when I returned the lost money, my Tantine said nothing. She just shoved the money into her dress pocket and continued to cook. I stood for a few solitary seconds before realizing there would be no praise. No, my reward would be avoiding a second beating. Eagerly, I recounted my day to Lovelie who celebrated with hugs and kisses. 

This was my new life. Working hard for money to help my family. I continued going to the market on my own, proud at every centime I helped to bring. I was no longer a baby who didn’t understand how the world worked. Being soft and sensitive was a weakness. No, no I had to be strong. I could never go back to the girl who climbed mountains without abandon. Who didn’t understand why she had to leave the hospital in the still of midnight. Who played more than any one of her cousins. I couldn’t go back to the bliss of ignorance. I just couldn’t. Things were different now; I was different. I knew the truth. My first fight had come and gone. In the end, I won. But according to Lovelie, there would be much more for me to face. 

2014 - Nassau, Bahamas 

You’re my story. 

“Wasn’t that terrifying? To watch your mangos get stolen like that?” Aaliyah asks. 

“Oh, it was. I almost peed myself.” I laugh. “Somehow, I found the courage to face him again.” 

“Wow, Grammy. And you were only six?” 

“Yup, you grow up quick in Ayiti. You have to.” 

“I love hearing about Haiti. I want to visit there one day. See where you were born and lived.” 

“I don’t know, baby.” 

After hearing about my childhood, Aaliyah was filled with questions about my home country. She wanted to know everything about Jean Rabel. I answered every one of her questions. Though I love where I grew up, I had little desire for my granddaughter to go there. Haiti was a different place now. Even I hadn’t returned in the last decade or so. There was no need, not when everything I needed was right here. I had done everything so my children and grandchildren wouldn’t have to grow up like I did. They’d never experience the days of not having enough that I endured. They would never have to worry about where the food would come from or working as a child to help their family. My children and grandchildren had a better life all because of the one decision I made. The decision that changed my life. It wasn’t lost on me that my granddaughter wanted to visit a place that I had to leave behind. 

Aaliyah shakes her head hard. “I’m going to go to Haiti. I want to know where our people come from. Meet family I’ve never met before.”

There was that stubborn nature again. It wasn’t worth it to try and dissuade her. If she said she’d do something, she was going to do it. No matter what anyone else said. Ayiti was and still is a very beautiful country. I wish more people would see it that way. But its beauty was hidden under a host of problems. It felt like Haiti could never win. It always had to fight. Fight for freedom. Fight to exist. Fight to survive. Haiti had been plagued by years of corrupt leadership and political oppression. Even with the rise of democracy, poverty and violence abounded. There were many struggling to afford basic necessities like food and water. The people were hungry, sick, and dying. The deteriorating conditions led to protests and demonstrations. Haiti was dominated by lawlessness and instability. The violence and corruption made it difficult for travelers to make their way to the island nation. News headlines spoke to the fears that many already had about its failures.

The earthquake four years prior did no favors for the already struggling nation. It decimated Haiti, causing much damage and death. Tragic. My nation, place of my birth, home would never be the same. Even after my long years of living in the Bahamas, I still longed for my country. I still had a sense of pride in being Haitian despite the negative connotations it carried. Even with all its challenges, that country was still mine. My granddaughter was a child of Haiti, despite her feet never touching its soil. Haitians were strong people; they wouldn’t give up. Even after everything they went through, Haitians were still standing strong. The untapped potential lit the flicker of hope in my heart. Maybe one day Aaliyah would experience Haiti in a more prosperous condition. It seemed impossible. But the impossible had happened in Haiti before. 

“I’m sure you will someday,” I say. “Any more questions?” 

“Yes, Grammy. Did you ever come across that man again?”

“Never. I believe that he found a new spot and did his best to stay out of my way.” 

“And you continued selling in the market?” 

“Yes, I did. I always carried my knife. Thankfully, there were only a few times I had to use it.” 

“What about Yvonne? Did you ever see her again?” 

“Yes, I saw her all the time. I was her apprentice.” 

Aaliyah nods, taking notes as quickly as her pen will allow her. Then, she asks another question. What was it like growing up in Jean Rabel?”